Good, Decent
by B.C Daily
Summary: He'd been running himself ragged for over a month, and Lily waited with something akin to awe for the inevitable crash. [LJOneshot]


**Author's Notes: **Another drabble-that-isn't-a-drabble, in honor of our lovely James's birthday. I don't know why I have an uncontrollable fascination with James + Head Boy, but I really do. Here's that, plus the actual prompt, which was 'James is tired'.

* * *

**Good, Decent**

He'd been running himself ragged for over a month, and Lily waited with something akin to awe for the inevitable crash.

End-of-term sixth year was meant to be the easy one. No ghastly level exams, no frightening graduation, no bothersome rules against magic outside of Hogwarts keeping you down. Most of Year 6 was happily lazing off, but James Potter had apparently missed the memo. Lily had never seen someone so all over the place: Quidditch meetings and Transfiguration Club demonstrations, extra lessons with McGonagall and even a 2nd year study group someone had apparently conned him into taking over (which had turned into a 2nd year study group _and_ several detentions, as James had apparently decided that the best way to teach the Goblin Rebellions was to reenact them in the middle of the library, a hands-on method which Madam Pince had _not_ similarly revered). He was everywhere at once, and yet nowhere at all. It was fascinating to behold, and confounding to discern.

And now this. Lily had to admit, she almost wasn't surprised. When she'd noticed Remus had been absent from lessons that morning, she'd reckoned her fellow Prefect was fighting another losing battle with his tempestuous immune system—certainly something that deserved a bit of sympathy, even if it inevitably left her alone to conquer the mountains of paperwork they had planned to sort through that night. Thanks to a rowdy case of spring fever and the aforementioned Great Hogwarts Goblin Rebellion of '77, Gryffindor had managed to accumulate a rather impressive amount of disciplinary reports that month. It was pure dumb luck that it turned out to be Lily and Remus's turn to trudge through the accompanying red tape. Lily despised paperwork. She despised even more having to do paperwork alone. But she'd already gone and resigned herself to the task when—quite like the unstoppable hurricane he seemed to have become—James Potter came rushing through the portrait hole, a flurry of limbs and words and movement. He headed straight for her.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." He threw himself down on the sofa beside her, jostling the cushions and the pile of reports she already had spread around her. He let out a loud breath. "Mighty McG's still roaringly put out over the whole library thing. Kept me scrubbing cauldrons an extra half-hour. Honestly, dunno what she has against a hands-on teaching approach. Where does she reckon I learned it from?"

"I think it may have been more the four bookshelves your rebels took down amidst battle than your teaching methods," Lily said. "Two were in the Transfiguration section, you know." She watched as he wriggled the bits of parchment he'd unceremoniously sprawled himself upon out from underneath him. Instead of tossing them atop one of the piles she already had stacked on the nearby coffee table, he began to skim through them, one by one. "What are you doing?" she asked.

His gaze flickered to her briefly. "Helping."

"Helping?"

"Remus is in the hospital wing. Felt really rotten about leaving you to this mess, so I said I'd step in. Reckon it's sort of my mess to clean up anyway, yeah?"

"You _did_ stage a minor child uprising in a library." Though that still didn't seem like a proper enough explanation. She eyed him shrewdly. "Still, I'd hardly peg you for one to be buried by guilt by his nefarious antics. You've been responsible for your fair share of Prefect paperwork before. You don't have to start repenting with this one. I've got it."

"Didn't say you haven't. Just said I'd help." He flipped to the next report. "Oh, look! Paulie Prewett. Excellent strategic tactician. He was our point man, you know. Really roused up a stellar combative initiative."

He yawned. Lily frowned.

"Potter, why don't you go nap or something? You look dead on your feet."

"Naps are for sods. I'm fine." But he accompanied the insistence with another long yawn. Not exactly convincing, and he seemed to know it. "Just been a mad day, s'all. Hooch had us up at the crack of dawn for a bloody captains meeting. Dunno why she's still calling them. Season's well and over."

"So is your best attempt to stay awake, mate. Just—"

"Mara Hodges! That girl single-handedly took down two of those bookshelves. Most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Nearly had me weeping with pride. Who else you've got in here?"

Lily sighed in exasperation, her protests seeming to fall on deaf ears. As James continued chattering stubbornly on about each successive member of his rebellion, Lily resigned herself to ceasing all attempts at better judgment. Despite the way his shoulders slumped and the distinct smudges of dark she spotted hugging his eyelids like a second skin, Potter was apparently determined to help. What else could she do but let him? If he was determined to work himself into his own grave—undoubtedly digging it, preparing it, and building his own casket along the way—dig he would, and there was little she could do about it. They may not be grand friends, but Lily knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't give in easily. On some days, she found his tenacity admirable. Today, she found it perplexing, exasperating, and intriguing.

(But mostly, maybe, a little endearing. She hated that he was almost always a little endearing.)

So for a good half-hour, she let him at it. Once she'd explained the utterly monotonous paperwork process, he'd thrown himself into it with abandon. Lily had to admit, it was nice not to be left on her own. Even half dead on his feet, James Potter was entertaining. He inevitably knew more about the piles of infractions than she did, and seemed to have a story for each one. She teased him mercilessly about his tendency to count using his fingers, even as they were calculating point deductions by tens and twenties. But with each passing report observed, each tale of mischief successfully relayed, Lily noted as his eyes began to grow heavier, his words slurring together ever-so-perceivably. When nearly a minute had passed without him interrupting with some kind of grand tale, Lily glanced over to find him with his head tilted back against the couch, eyes closed.

"James?" she said quietly.

His eyes blinked open with obvious effort. He cleared his throat, tried to sit up, but only ended up slumping further into the cushions.

"Sorry." His eyes skittered closed again. "Gimme a minute. Small handwriting. Hurts my eyes. Just resting for a sec."

"_All _of you needs to rest for a sec," Lily argued, growing agitated now. "Why are you still down here? You've helped. I'll finish up the rest. Go to bed, James."

He shook his head aggressively. "No, no. S'fine. M'fine. Just a sec. One more sec."

"Why are you doing this?" She didn't understand. "Running yourself ragged? All these meetings and groups and favours? You've never done all this rubbish before—and certainly never all at the same time! It's mad, James. Daft. You have to slow down. Give yourself a break."

"I can't. S'fine. I'm—"

"You're _not _fine. And what do you mean, 'can't'? Yes, you can."

"_Have_ to."

"_Don't _have to. You—"

"Head Boys do. Head Boys have to."

Lily stopped, froze.

"Head Boys?" She could barely get out the word. "You…you want to be _Head Boy_?"

"M'father was Head Boy," James murmured quietly, his eyes still closed. "He's dead now."

Lily felt a sharp pull in her chest. Nodded, even though he couldn't see it. Everyone knew, of course, that James Potter's father had passed away the previous summer. It had been reported in all the papers, whispered about behind cupped hands when term had begun. Lily herself had heard the news first from Marlene, then Remus when they'd met on the train for their Prefect's meeting. James's mate had been visibly worried.

"He's taken it all a bit hard," Remus said, his expression sad. "Doesn't have much family, James. Mostly just him and his mum now. So don't be too hard on him, all right? He's going to try to put up a good front, but he's not really all there yet."

And Remus had been right: James _had _put up a pretty solid front. Perhaps he found comfort in the familiar halls of Hogwarts, bought himself some peace with the distance from home, but James seemed to slip easily back into his usual ways: laughs and quips, Quidditch and camaraderie, pranks and popularity. If she hadn't known him for five years, Lily might have thought he was a perfectly content bloke. But anyone who'd known James Potter before his father's death could easily recognize that there was a certain gravity to him now that there had never been before. His actions seemed more deliberate, his smiles slower. He wasn't always speaking, wasn't always running, wasn't this ceaseless ball of restless energy that couldn't be contained or controlled—didn't _want _to be contained or controlled.

Grief had matured James Potter. In some ways better, in some ways worse.

It had also apparently made him want to be Head Boy.

Lily was still trying to wrap her head around that one.

"I'm really sorry about your dad," she said, because it was something she _could _say, something she meant, wholeheartedly. "That's really…that's hard."

"Yeah." He paused, swallowed hard. "Yeah. Dad was good. Decent. Always wanted me to be Prefect, y'know. Then Head Boy, like him. But who had time for that? Right stuffy swot business, all of it. Been thinking about it a lot though, lately. Couldn't kick it, so went to Dumbledore and talked to him—he didn't laugh me out of his office, so I reckon that's a good sign. Said I ought to take some initiative. Leadership... responsibility..."

"Spontaneous warfare?" Lily suggested, which earned her a grin.

For the first time since he'd started talking, James's eyes flickered open. "You think I'm mad, don't you?" he asked. "For thinking it could happen? That I could be Head Boy?"

But that was the thing, Lily suddenly realized, staring unblinking at this boy who had become a man far sooner than he'd been ready to. She _didn't _think it was that mad. Not really. Not if you thought about it. It wasn't the _conventional _choice, no, but it wasn't the worst, either. James might have felt the need to run himself to near collapse in his attempts to prove his worth, but he already had some pretty positive attributes to commend him. He'd already been Quidditch captain, and helped run Transfiguration Club. He was well-liked, and well-respected. Did he have a penchant to break a few rules, run his life with a creative flair that few people could rightfully claim? Start a few innocent uprisings on school property? Well, yes. But if nothing else, that certainly made him original.

But maybe more than all of that, James Potter was good. Decent.

Like father, like son.

(Plus, he wasn't too hard on the eyes. Lily reckoned that ought to count for something.)

"Actually, I think it might just be mad enough to be genius," she answered, smiling a little. She didn't miss the surprise in his face. "I reckon you'd be a pretty brilliant Head Boy, actually."

His eyes narrowed. "You just saying that because my dad's dead?"

"I don't do pity votes."

"Or pity dates, apparently. Because otherwise I'd have earned one by now."

Lily snorted. "Yeah, I reckon so." She nudged him gently with the tip of one socked toe. "You rest your eyes, then. Five minutes. I'll wake you up and we'll finish these quick."

Looking at her for one last long moment, James smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Evans."

"No problem."

Approximately three minutes later, he was snoring softly.

(And blast it all if she didn't find _that_ a little endearing, too.)

Lily didn't think much of it when she slipped off his glasses and placed them carefully on the nearby end table, ensuring they wouldn't be crushed in slumber. She didn't think much of it when he began to slump over, and his head came to rest nearly atop her shoulder, a comforting weight. She didn't think much of summoning one of the nearby throw pillows, transfiguring it into a thick quilt, and carefully maneuvering it over his dozing form, all while attempting not to jostle him, a pretty trick. When the common room began to grow rowdy, she didn't think much of casting a bubble charm around his head, then carefully coating it with a silencing charm so he wouldn't be disturbed, not for as long as she could control it. After dinner, his mates stumbled in and spotted him sleeping against her and she didn't think much of their pointed looks and smug snickers—mostly she just wanted them to shut it, or he was going to wake up. For the next hour—and quite a bit of time after that—Lily didn't think much of anything, really. Not much of anything, of course, except:

James Potter, Head Boy.

Now, wouldn't that be interesting?


End file.
